


We Should Not Be Judged

by shellikybookie



Category: The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Priest Kink, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellikybookie/pseuds/shellikybookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Comte de Rochefort comes to the cardinal late at night with a spiritual crisis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Should Not Be Judged

The hour of compline had passed and Cardinal Richelieu found himself not at prayer, but at work. Owing to the lateness of the hour, he had retired from his office to his private study to review the day's correspondence, but the stack of missives requiring his attention seemed little diminished, and the candles had already burned down to half their height, flickering fitfully in pools of wax. It was, therefore, with a certain amount of relief that he heard the soft knock at his door.

"Enter," he said without enquiry, for he knew that at this hour, when the rest of the Palace slept, it could only be one man.

The Comte de Rochefort entered, striding forward to kneel and kiss the gold ring on the hand that the cardinal extended to him across the escritoire. "Rochefort," he said, his acknowledgement permission for the man to rise, but Rochefort did not. Richelieu set down his quill, his brows raising in question at the continued deference. "Well, what brings you to me at this hour when sensible men are abed?" he asked, the mildness of his tone belying the sudden sharpness of his interest.

"Your Eminence," Rochefort replied contritely, "forgive me for disturbing the peace of your evening, but my thoughts are… troubled." He raised his head to look up at the cardinal. "Will you hear my confession?"

Richelieu's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. The captain's expression showed nothing but reverence for his office, and Richelieu could read nothing from it. It was, at other times, a quality he valued in the man, but at the moment, it served only to pique his curiosity further. "Leave me," he spoke to the guards who waited at his door, and with hasty bows, they withdrew, drawing it shut behind them.

Such was the cardinal's exalted position, and such were the demands on his time, that he only rarely heard confession these days, save from the king himself, whose sins were the venal misdeeds of a spoilt child, and from whom one could not, in any case, expect any true penitence. Rochefort was another matter. In Richelieu's service, he willingly accrued sins both venal and mortal that his devotion would never allow him to breathe to another – not even God Himself. And, for that devotion, the cardinal could not refuse his servant absolution for what was done in his service.

"It is a duty of my divine office," Richelieu replied. "Though necessity has made me a statesman, I am a priest first." Rising from his seat behind the desk, he said, "But come, let us retire to a more intimate setting."

Though the cardinal trusted his guard insofar as such men could be trusted, he wanted no chance of Rochefort's words being overheard. He brought them deeper into the apartment, directing them to his sitting room. A fire burned in the grate, emitting a halo of warm light, and Richelieu declined to light the candles in their sconces so that the shadows added to the room's confessional intimacy.

Rochefort's gaze traveled around the room, eye falling on those few personal items of the cardinal on display here: a family portrait, a favourite book, much dog-eared and resting on a side table in easy reach. A yellow-eyed cat perched on the mantle, her long tail lashing lazily. She held Rochefort's gaze with the feline arrogance of precedence.

"You needn't worry," Richelieu said in amusement. "She won't break confidence." It was impossible to tell in the ruddy firelight if Rochefort coloured at that, but he looked away.

Richelieu ensconced himself comfortably in his favourite chair before the fire and gestured for Rochefort to take his place. "Now," he said, and Rochefort went again to his knees. He clasped his hands before him in an attitude of prayer, but they were white-knuckled, Richelieu noted with interest.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned," Rochefort began in a low, rough voice. "It has been many months since my last confession. I have done violence in that time…"

"In my service?" the cardinal interjected, and Rochefort nodded.

"Yes."

"In the service of France, then, and of God."

"I wonder…" came Rochefort's murmured reply, which caused Richelieu to frown slightly in displeasure and disquiet.

"You doubt my motives?" he asked, taking care to keep the sharpness from his tone.

"Never, Your Eminence," Rochefort answered. "But I… I doubt my own."

"Do you not trust me to guide you in such matters?" Richelieu asked in gentle reproach.

"Unquestionably!" Rochefort replied fervently with an expression of dismay that it should even need to be asked.

Richelieu made a quelling gesture to calm the man, and said, "What, then, gives you pause?"

At this, Rochefort dropped his gaze again, and was silent so long that the cardinal began to think that the captain fought some battle with himself. At length, he said with evident reluctance, "I have had… impure thoughts."

Richelieu smiled at that and restrained himself from the amused chuckle that sealed itself behind his lips. "Well, so might any man. We are, after all, creatures of flesh as well as spirit. There is no great sin in that," he said indulgently, for it had not been said that the cardinal was himself a man who kept to strict vows of chastity.

But Rochefort found no comfort or amusement in the pronouncement. His spine bowed as though he sought to abase himself further still, and he spoke as though each word caused him torment. "Father, my thoughts are… of another man."

"Another man?" The admission was at first unexpected, and then not at all when Richelieu ordered it with everything else that Rochefort had said – and not said. For all that he was a good Catholic, the cardinal had never suspected faith to be the source of the captain's unwavering devotion, nor was the man self-advancing enough to be driven by ambition. That it could be something as simple and as sordid as desire had never crossed his mind. He hesitated to give it any other name, though he could not keep it entirely from his thoughts. With the long practice of a courtier, Richelieu kept the revelation from his face. "Some fresh-faced youth?" he suggested lightly.

"That I might understand," Rochefort answered in shame. "But a man of wisdom and grace… I dishonour him with my imaginings."

"What do you imagine?" Richelieu asked, affecting a cool detachment he did not truly feel, and Rochefort groaned softly as though the question pained him.

"I dare not say."

"My dear Rochefort, I cannot absolve you of those sins of which you will not unburden yourself. You may bare yourself to me here in complete confidence," the cardinal replied smoothly, and he heard the captain's breath catch harshly in his throat.

A shiver seemed to pass over Rochefort's body despite the warmth of the fire, and when he spoke again, it was with a slow deliberateness, like a man recounting a half-remembered dream. "He stands over me. I put myself at his feet."

"You debase yourself to him?" Richelieu asked, but Rochefort shook his head in denial.

"I am proud to do it. He is a great and gracious man. He offers me his hand, and I – " But here Rochefort hesitated, clearly fearing that he had said too much already.

"Yes?" the cardinal prompted, his gaze so knowing that Rochefort could not bring himself to meet it.

"I kiss it," he continued in a low voice. "My lips touch his skin, and it is soft. Softer than a woman's. He has a prince's hand."

The cardinal's fingers smoothed over the watered silk of his gown. He stopped when he realized he was doing it.

"He puts his hand on me."

"On your body?"

"On my head."

"Like a faithful dog?"

"Like a son." Rochefort hesitated and then corrected himself. "No, not like that."

"Like this?" Richelieu asked, stretching out his hand to rest atop the captain's head as though in benediction. Rochefort’s hair was thick and softer than he imagined it would be. Richelieu would not have imagined that any part of Rochefort could be soft, but he was learning otherwise.

"Yes," Rochefort answered, leaning into the touch almost unconsciously. His eye was closed, as though he was wrapped up in the scene behind it. It was a curiously innocent picture the captain had painted thus far. Much more so than the possibilities that presented themselves now to Richelieu’s own imagination. And so it was with thinly concealed anticipation that the cardinal urged him on. "And then?"

"His hands in my hair…"

Richelieu loosened Rochefort's hair from its tie, letting the soft strands slip through his fingers to fall over Rochefort's shoulders and frame his uplifted face. He could not say what moved him, then, to strip the studded leather patch from Rochefort's eye except a desire to bare the man's body, to bare his scars, as completely as he had bared his soul. Rochefort's eyes opened – one blue-white and blind, and the other golden, aglow with firelight, burning with adoration.

"Your Eminence…"

Richelieu's fingertips followed the silver track of a scar from the upper curve of Rochefort's cheek to the sweep of his temple. "Does he kiss you, this imaginary man of yours?"

Rochefort's lips parted on the ghost of a sigh. "No. He would never."

"You imagine him such a cold lover?" The cardinal drew his fingers down Rochefort's cheek to trace his trembling lips with the lightest touch, and he whispered, "Does he use your mouth?"

Rochefort could not entirely suppress the sound he made in response, and it made Richelieu's pulse quicken in kind, and more so the captain's ragged confession, "I would let him."

The heat of Rochefort's mouth was shocking when Richelieu's fingers slipped past his lips, as was the softness of his tongue that accepted them as worshipfully as the Host. The cardinal was shocked at his own response. Rochefort was no pretty young boy for whom this suddenly awakened passion might be excused. He was a man full-grown, confident in his own power, and yet utterly in thrall to Richelieu's. To have the strength of that body yield to him, to have that fiery will submit to him so completely was intoxicating.

Shifting in his chair, Richelieu slid one slippered foot forward to press between Rochefort's legs. The captain made a sound of discomfort around the fingers in his mouth even as he sucked at them more hungrily, and he pushed back against the cardinal's foot, seeking more contact. Through the supple leather of his slipper, through the fine wool of Rochefort's breeches, Richelieu could feel the hard line of the other man's cock, and he felt his own stir in response. He pressed down a little more with his toes, making Rochefort moan and rut against him. "But what is this?" he asked, enjoying the flush of warmth that shame and arousal both brought to Rochefort's skin. He did not allow the man to look away when he tried.

"Please, Your Eminence. Please…" Rochefort pleaded, hardly seeming to know what he was asking for – for this torment to end mercifully, or for it to continue until he could not stand it any longer.

"Is this where your imagination fails you, Rochefort?" the cardinal asked silkily. "Or do you touch yourself and imagine that it is him?"

"I never – " Rochefort began to protest, but Richelieu smiled with certainty.

"You do. How do you do it? Is it breathless and hurried, or do you make it last? Does he?"

Rochefort's eyes were closed, his hands tightly fisted in the fabric of his breeches as though he was afraid of what he might do with them otherwise.

"Show me," Richelieu spoke the soft command, knowing that it would be obeyed before Rochefort gave a helpless groan and his trembling hands went to the fastenings of his breeches. He thrust a hand inside, but the cardinal's foot stopped him. "Surely, this isn't the way," Richelieu said. "Or do you think you can hide from God's sight what you are attempting to hide from mine?" He tapped with his foot against the inside of one of Rochefort's knees to urge them farther apart. "No, Rochefort. Let me see."

There was a moment of hesitation in which Richelieu wondered if he had at last reached the limit of the captain's obedience, but then Rochefort pushed the loose breeches and linen drawers as far down his thighs as his spread knees would allow and, without needing to be told, he lifted up the hanging hem of his shirt to expose himself entirely to the cardinal's view. He was fully erect, the head of his cock partially exposed, darkly flushed and already leaking. Richelieu found himself swallowing thickly when Rochefort closed a hand around himself. "Look at me," he said, and Rochefort's eyes fluttered open again as though he could not help it, and the heat he saw in the cardinal's gaze sent a shiver through him. He watched the cardinal watch him as his hand began to move.

Rochefort alternated short, tight strokes with long, slow pulls from root to tip that soon had him panting, his laboured breaths loud in the room that was otherwise silent but for the crackle of the fire. Silk whispered as Richelieu leaned forward to take hold of Rochefort's wrist. He watched himself do it with a surreal detachment, as though he was not fully himself in this moment, but the version of himself who inhabited Rochefort’s fantasy, a version of himself who could take what he wanted without shame. At the cardinal’s touch, Rochefort's motions stuttered and stilled. He could feel the tension in the man, feel how he fought his need, and he felt the shift of muscle and tendon as Rochefort's fist tightened enough, surely, to be almost painful.

"Would your lover's touch be so cruel?" Richelieu asked, and the lightest pressure of his hand encouraged Rochefort to move again. They moved together – Rochefort's hand and his lover's; it did not matter that no part of the cardinal touched him except for his fingers around Rochefort's wrist, bare skin to skin. "Tell me, Rochefort," the cardinal said, "Do you call my name when you spend yourself, or is it 'Your Eminence' even then?"

No name passed Rochefort's lips, but a broken cry tore itself free from his tight throat as he came, spilling hotly over his fingers and onto the silk carpet. He twisted away from the cardinal's grip, his body hunching as if he might hide what he had done. "Forgive me, Your Eminence! God, forgive me!" he said unsteadily on a sobbing, shuddering breath, and Richelieu wondered which pardon Rochefort desired more – God's or his. Which had the captain truly been seeking when he came here tonight?

"Do you repent of your sin?" the cardinal asked, surprising himself by the gentleness of his words. He looked down at Rochefort's dishevelled form where he knelt like a condemned man at his feet, and the contempt he expected to feel did not come. 

Rochefort's head was bowed and his hair hung forward to veil his face, obscuring his expression. "I want to," he answered hoarsely. "I have tried. I detest this weakness in myself, but I… What I feel…" His shoulders lifted and fell in a hopeless shrug, and he said with raw honesty, "I can abjure my flesh. But my heart? I don't have the strength."

"To think that there was such tender weakness in you," Richelieu mused, and Rochefort looked up, uncertain if he was being mocked and proud enough still for it to sting like salt in a wound. But Richelieu said, "Ah, Rochefort, we are all weak. I think, sometimes, that weakness may be a gift. How monstrous we would be without it." He held out his hand – not that which bore the heavy gold ring of his office, but the other, unadorned – and Rochefort extended his to take it. For the briefest moment, his eye met Richelieu's before he bowed his head to kiss the cardinal's hand, a feather-soft brush of his lips, warm and dry, against bare skin.

"Dear Rochefort," Richelieu said, using his other hand to brush the hair back from the captain's brow and bare his face. "It is enough. For if we would judge ourselves, we should not be judged."

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [Hereticality](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hereticality/pseuds/Hereticality) for this pairing, who pulled it off with far more class than I ever could.
> 
> The verse which Richelieu takes so shamelessly out of context is I Corinthians 11:31-2.  
>  _For if we would judge ourselves, we should not be judged.  
>  But when we are judged, we are chastened of the Lord, that we should not be condemned with the world._
> 
> I should note that, while I'm not a Catholic or a Christian, I intend no disrespect to the sacrament of confession. I mean no offence, and I'm sorry if I've given it.


End file.
